Full Fathom Five Thy Father Lies
by Kay Taylor
Summary: JackWill, JackBill. About the differences and similarities between father and son.
1. full fathom five thy father lies

_Full fathom five thy father lies...  
_  
When the wind comes from the Isla de Muerta, it's salty and heavy and reminds Jack of nothing more than the scent of fresh blood, carried in on the coastal wind, metallic and sweet. Nights like this, he raises his glass to old Bill, Bootstrap Bill, and drinks alone in his cabin with the ghost of times past. Drinking companions are sometimes the better for being dead - no-one to say _that's not how it happened_ or _I remember it different_, but that's not the case with Bill, who smells of sea air and deep salty depths, and if he came dragging into Jack's cabin, cannon in tow and all, he'd leave a trail of green seaweed behind, slicker than the warm chasms of his throat.

The crew of the _Pearl_ were the only ones who knew where Bootstrap got his nickname - an ill-fated game of cards, where Bill was just a little too daring and Jack was just a little too lucky, and at some point between the end of the rum and the sun coming up, Bill had wagered everything he owned, down to his bootstraps.  
Jack had promised, then, that he wouldn't collect, not when Bill was his best friend in the whole _world_, and they should forget it and have another drink, and where on earth had all the rum gone?

But he'd lied (_not really,_ he reasoned it out to himself, because there was no reason to collect, not when he could lay his head on Bill's shoulder and watch the eddy and sway of the wind in the rigging), and the next time he'd found Bill asleep on watch, he'd crouched down and began the painstaking work of stripping Bill of everything he owned, right down to the bootstraps.

Those bootstraps. When news of the wager had got around, Bill had been tattooed in Tortuga, with whiskey thrown over to seal in good fortune. But the artist was a drunkard and a thief, and the two bootstraps looked like twin snakes on Bill's back, following the lazy curve of his shoulderblades, coiling under the skin.

When Jack had got to the shirt - past the pistols, the coat, the scarf, and the curious length of green cloth (about which Bill would only mutter, A lady, and no-one would challenge him further for fear of losing an eye) - he took out his dagger and slit the cloth up, easy as easy. And by the time Bill had woken up fully, coming around with squinting eyes and furrowed brow against the daylight, he'd found that he was dressed in nothing _but_ his bootstraps, and a crouching Jack Sparrow was investigating the salty hollows of his collarbones, running a warm tongue up to taste the sweat on his chest.

Bootstrap's bootstraps, and how they became the death of him, though Bill had sworn blind at the time - dragged clumsily along the deck, trailing bootlaces and green cloth and half-a-dozen nameless, pilfered trinkets from his pockets - that it would be the rum, the rum that had taken all his clothes and weapons and left him suddenly unarmed with his fierce-eyed captain.

The tattoo had tasted of spirits, Jack remembers, as though they were soaked into his very skin. And so the wind from the Isla de Muerta smells of spirits, because he's set himself to drinking the _Pearl_ dry, one flagon at a time, raising his glass to the memory of Bill and draining it down, down, until the room is spinning.

He can remember being unaccountably surprised to hear of Bootstrap's son, though it stands to reason; _change is as good as a rest_, he mumbles to himself, thinking of months becalmed and holed up on forgotten islands, and how warm and clean a woman's touch could be afterwards.

The son, though, he was a surprise of a different kind, and Jack wonders if he's as terrible at cards as his old man was.

Or whether he'd taste of seaweed and salt, like the ghost of Bill Turner, who's at the door now, dragging his cannon behind him.


	2. of his bones are coral made

_Of his bones are coral made_.

Bill used to have a tiny bead of coral wrapped around his neck on a leather thong, Jack remembers, and that was also a gift from the ladies. Bill was lucky with the ladies, with those brown eyes and that stubborn, thick-set jaw; but it didn't really matter, because any time Jack wanted to, he could get hold of that leather on the back of Bill's neck, under the unwashed hair, and - _yank_ - and there was Bill back with him again. Collapsing onto the deck and rubbing at his neck, where the leather had bitten into the skin and left a red, red mark. Like a hangman's shadow, and Jack wonders if he'd have made that association if he hadn't seen Bill Turner's son through the thick knotted cord of a noose.

They look alike; damnably alike, and more than once Jack finds himself calling Will by his father's name. Though he was one of the few who knew said father by name, after the boostrap incident, he wasn't much of a one for using that name: Bootstrap Bill Turner on the deck and in the rigging and in the taverns of Tortuga, and only Will' when he least expected it, whispered from behind into his ear, Jack's breath tickling against the back of his neck. And so the one time that Jack is drunk, and sidles up to Will Turner, blacksmith Will Turner, safely-married-to-Elizabeth Will Turner, and calls him William' with a dangerous look in his eye and a lascivious twitch to his lips, Will just turns around and says _What?_ and for a moment it's his father standing there, squinting into the sun and reproaching Jack for being drunk before midday.

Not that it ever made the blindest bit of difference; in fact, Jack is positively sure that Bill enjoyed seeing him drunk, the tang of rum on his breath and the sheen of sweat on his face, smudging kohl down onto his cheeks and lending his laugh just that - bit - more madness than usual. At least, that's what he tells himself, and is positively put out when Will Turner doesn't share his father's propensity for drunken, singing, half-naked pirates.

There's a trinket in Jack's hair for Bootstrap Bill - that little green/blue bead was the same colour as Bill's coral bead, and Jack has told himself more than once that Bill gave it to him before they parted. Conveniently forgetting, of course, that he'd scoured Tortuga for one just the same.

It's easy to tell lies to himself about Bill. Less so when Bill actually turns up at the party, and Jack turns around in his cabin to see sea-slime on the floor and the thick, heavy scent of salt and blood in the air. Wind from the Isla de Muerta. And Jack twines his hair around his fingers, rubbing that coral bead smooth with the ball of his thumb, thinking that it feels wrong without the warmth of Bill's neck, the sudden sharpness of his stubble.


	3. those are pearls that were his eyes

_Those are pearls that were his eyes...  
_  
Bill opens his eyes and sees Jack's face buried in his neck, the harsh wiry briskness of his mustache scraping against the skin, and Jack is mumbling in that half-mad way he has, as though he's telling you something _desperately important_ about his dream, but can't quite get the words out in the right order. His kohl is sweaty and smeared, greasy, over his left cheek, and Bill can remember dabbling his fingers in it, painting like a child, and Jack swearing at him.

Bill opens his eyes and sees that he's almost nodded off in the midday sun. The sea is flat for miles and miles towards the shimmering horizon, and there's not a speck of land in sight. The blue-green is merciless, and he shades his eyes. There's a footfall on the deck behind him, and he turns, to see the First Mate giving him a hard stare. Mustn't fall asleep on duty, not when there's sheets to be furled and decks to be scrubbed, no matter how much of a fancy the captain has taken to you. Mustn't turn your back on Barbossa either, with that cold hard glint in his eye and the swagger to his step, the way he runs a covetous hand over the wheel now, master of the _Pearl_ in his mind already.

Bill opens his eyes and gasps in pain, feeling the breath tearing at his throat, and he clutches at the sheets wildly, trying to escape from the light. Hands grab his wrists. Strong hands. He tries not to call out, but the light is swinging, swinging overhead, and he knows with a sickening lurch that they're still caught in that damned storm, and all around him there are creaks and groans of timber, and the quick harsh whispering between Jack and Blind Davies, the nearest thing they've got to a doctor. Jack jabs a finger towards Bill, and his eyes are wild. Davies leans forward, shaking his head, and Bill tries to sit up, but the pain is like a bullet to the gut, and he slumps back down again. _Stay still,_ Jack says, and his words are coming from miles and miles away, past that glassy-blue horizon, and his cheeks are still smeared with black. _Or I'll knock you out again myself, savvy?_

Bill opens his eyes and realises, with a horrible rush of memory, that the whore on the floor is Poxy Camille, that the red dress she's wearing is stolen, and that the arm around his waist belongs to Captain Jack Sparrow, who's tanned and naked and stretched out on top of the sheets. He shuts his eyes again, and remembers the slow glide of flesh and skin and the sweet, salty-cloying taste of sweat on his tongue. He remembers the heat, and the prickle of Jack's hair on his back.

Bill opens his eyes, and sees nothing but darkness. He can feel the seaweed, clammy and suffocating.


End file.
